


Till Kingdom Come

by Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Crown Prince Mycroft, Fluff, M/M, Marriage, Prince John - Freeform, Prince Sherlock, This is a happy story, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1205392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya/pseuds/Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince Sherlock Holmes is in preparation for his wedding with his darling John Hamish Watson.</p>
<p>(Read the note, it's important!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till Kingdom Come

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, so, as some of you may have noted, I have changed this story immensely. I decided, after rereading and rereading this story constantly, that it is better off as a one-shot. Therefore, certain tags/couples/characters were deleted and the summary was rewritten. I hope this doesn't sway your liking of the story. Thank you, dearies. <3 xx

The kingdom of Ilu, it was a flourishing country, one to be admired by its humble neighbors. The rolling English plains, rich with hearty soil and growth of luscious leafage. Rumbling mountains, powdered with fleecy snow, mere petal dust to the salient rock. Gardens and meadows, overgrown with pinks and yellows and blues of springtime merriment. Their title had been well-chosen. Ilu. Beauty. Estonian tongue, in origination.

Its king, a kind, rosy-cheeked gentlemen, was Siger Holmes, who stood alongside his darling wife, Violet Holmes. She had birthed him two sons. The eldest, and heir to their throne: Mycroft Holmes. And then, their youngest, seven years beneath Mycroft, and their unifier of kingdoms: William Sherlock Scott Holmes, who insisted his only address be Sherlock, despite it being a middle, family-born forename. They were rambunctious lads, genius and playful, often pawing around in the kitchens - Mycroft always did have a special place in his heart for sugary-sweet cakes, despite his protests to such accusations -, or burying themselves underneath the Queen’s, or her ladies-in-waiting, skirts, always igniting a ruckus, causing the men to howl wholeheartedly over dinner.

Although, Sherlock was now seventeen, teetering on his eighteenth year, and the union of his and his betrothed - John Hamish Watson, of the neighboring kingdom of Nitro, their appellation origination held in Czechoslovakia - was hastily approaching.

The palace, normalcy being the graceful strides of maidens and knights, exchanging pleasantries, and gardeners tending to their tamed wildflowers, was in a splendid uproar.

The day began, as routine as it always had been. Embroidered drapes were carefully drawn apart, allowing the morning light to filter in, as a maiden roused the prince, with sweet words and tender caresses to his mussed curls. Routine niceties.

"My Prince? Oh, do wake. It is your special day!" the maiden chimed, stripping the prince of his bedclothes, and exposing his half-bare body to the chill of the early autumn morn.

“Maidy? What are you on about?” Sherlock inquired, his voice roughened and groggy, induced from a restless, excited slumber, as he heaved himself into a sitting position, rather than lying, entirely sprawled, across his bedsheets. He rubbed at his eyes, clearing his foggy vision, only to have his hand swatted by said maid.

“Dear Prince, you need not act ignorant to the day! We maidens heard the hushed recitings of your vows, why, right in these very chambers of yours! Don’t disregard it, the statements were utterly clear, if I may be so bold.” the maiden exclaimed gleefully, as she sectioned out her prince’s clothing for the early breakfast, after which the careful preparation for his marriage ensemble would commence. It was the first wedding, after all. Mycroft was still awfully apprehensive to acquiesce to Gregory Lestrade’s, of a kingdom far in the Southlands, proposal. There was a certain mutual attraction, yes, yet the elder Holmes refused to admit to such frivolous matters. Desire was needless, but a pleasant accessory, as Sherlock prefered to define it.

“Ah, yes, the wedding. My apologies for my thoughtlessness.” he mumbled, evidently displeased with being awoken, notwithstanding the date.

“The King and Queen are expectant of your presence at breakfast. It would be wise to hurry.” the maiden offered, before humbly assisting Sherlock onto the smooth stone floor, layered with fine, Icelandic carpet.

The prince shimmied out of his nighttime trousers, leaving him in a thin cloth, wrapped tight around his pelvis, and replaced them with the choice laid out for him. He completed said task wordlessly, and had his maiden clothe him with his crisp undershirt. As the hem had been neatly tucked beneath his waistband of his trousers, he held out his hand anticipatorily.

“Doublet, Maidy.”

She nodded eagerly, gathering the doublet, and strapping it across Sherlock’s broad chest, solid and enticing, even through a blinding undershirt. As she completed the last of the leather fastenings, he smiled graciously to her, dismissing her with a respectful bow of his head, and a casual hand gesture towards the chamber doors. She scurried off, after curtsying prettily, whispering gossip, almost immediately, as the doors shut behind her, and she had reunited with her workmates.

He simply huffed a laugh to the cheerful squeals of the women, and finished his garb, giving his curls a proper ruffling, setting off for the dining hall thereafter. The maids and stable boys were all greeting him with gleeful words of fortune and blessing, which he replied to dutifully; pressured smiles and hurried excuses. Truly Holmesian.

He straightened out his doublet, and hitched his posture. Mother always did nag him about his slumped shoulders. He allowed the door guards, clad in armor, to welcome him into the dining hall, where his family, elder brother and all, were calmly awaiting his arrival.

“Mother.” He bowed.

“Father.” He bowed.

“Mycroft.” He held his chin up pompously, with a hinted grin pulling at his lips.

“Sit, Sherlock, my dear.” Mummy Holmes - as Sherlock had excitedly named her, at age seven - insisted, gesturing to the empty seating to her left. Sherlock did as requested, sitting, and settling his clasped hands on his lap.

“Now, Sherlock, your clothing and such, they are prepared, yes?”

“Yes, Mother, they are.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Immensely.”

“You need not distress your heart over your blessid union. John Watson is certainly capable of caring for you, and you him.”

Sherlock’s eyes, a fluttering crystalline, bordering on seafoam green, searched out his mother’s softhearted gaze, as he swallowed dryly, unhelpfully.

“Do you truly believe that, Mother?”

“We all do.”

Sherlock nipped at his lower lip, reddening it, as he pondered his future. John and him, second-son princes, dearly married. They may, possibly, if their fortune holds true, find an orphan to nurture and teach the arts to, as an heir to the binded kingdoms. The Ilu of the Nitro. May it appear odd vocally, its meaning is one to be remembered, riddled into the stories and epics untold, for the generations to come.

“My dear son, do eat. You shall need your strength.” Mummy reached for Sherlock’s trembling fingers, enfolding them in her own palms, and smiling tenderly.

“Yes, Mother.”

Sherlock slid his hands from his mother’s graciously, a pretty giggle bubbling up his throat. He was to be wed, to the most downright fantastic boy he has ever had the pleasure of discovering. How interesting, what his blessings have presented to him.

He’d found Sherlock’s beauty, buried deep beneath the haughty brilliance and adolescent defiance. The Heart found the Beauty. The Beauty found the Heart. And that, that was something spectacular in itself.

Sherlock was ready, quite fain, in fact.  He could handle a mere John Watson, his thudding heart’s protesting be damned. Yes, he was, without any doubt, so ready to be married.

Let the wedding bells ring.


End file.
